


Burn the Witch

by AlexIsOkay



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/F, I wouldn't call it outright abusive or non-consensual but, as a heads up there's some borderline stuff in this regarding the power dynamic between them, consider yourself warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 07:31:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13095351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexIsOkay/pseuds/AlexIsOkay
Summary: How can the coldest woman she's ever known make her feel so warm?





	Burn the Witch

Her hands always feel so cold. Even when bits of flame wreath around her palms or arc between her fingertips the heat always feels so distant, sinking into skin for a single moment before disappearing again. And her hands never stop shaking. Which is a dangerous thing when she controls enough power to level an entire town with a flick of the wrist.

She’s up late every night, standing in the wide stone hall, screaming silent screams as she watches infernos of her own creation break free from their leashes, charing away pre-blackened skin and leaving piles of ash where terrifying beasts stood moments prior. And it’s too much, and it’s still not enough all at the same time. How many nights has she stood there, surrounded by flames that singe her clothing and her hair and even her skin until Mercury or Emerald grab her and pull her away? And even then, her hands still feel cold.

Salem’s hands don’t. They should. A woman with skin as pale as snow, whose presence chills any room she walks into, there’s no reason that her hands should feel as warm as they always do. But despite that, Cinder never feels cold when she hears Salem enter, when she listens to the woman’s heels clack across the floor, when she feels a hand against her shoulder and it’s somehow warmer than any fire could ever be. Because fire isn’t warm. It’s scorching. And there’s a difference.

“You’re doing well. There’s no point in pushing yourself too hard.” And Cinder listens. When Mercury or Emerald try to pull her from the middle of a blaze that threatens to consume her she lashes out and struggles and strains her throat to make whatever withered noise of protest she can. But when Salem speaks she lets the fire die down, until there’s nothing left. And she feels cold again. But Salem still feels warm.

“You should return to your room,” Salem says, but they both know it’s a lie. Because on nights like these, when Salem finds her practicing by herself, she never returns to her own room. Not right away, at least.

Salem’s hands are warm. But her lips are warmer. They feel warm against every inch of her body, pressed against skin, pressed against the bits that are scarred and burnt, that she would never let anyone else touch this way. They draw out breaths that are heavy and ragged, edging onto the border of pained, onto the way she breathes when she’s pushed herself too far and she collapses onto whichever one of her friends is closest just to avoid hitting the ground, but separated by just enough for those differences to dance at the edge of perception and make themselves barely known. They draw out noises too raspy and broken to be called moans, but too loud to be ignored entirely. She can’t say no. But she wouldn’t even if she could.

“I want to hear you say it,” Salem tells her. She’s not sure if it’s a request or a command, but she’s not sure if that distinction holds meaning either. 

“I…” she replies. But the words are too heavy. They scratch at her throat, sinking in their claws as they latch on and refuse to travel up to her mouth. She takes too long. Salem grows tired of waiting.

Their gazes are cold as they sit around their table, and she can feel their eyes on her. Mocking. Judgemental. She’s the child at the adult’s table. The failure whose mistakes they’ll never repeat. She sinks farther back into her chair, and wishes that she didn’t have to be there.

Until Salem speaks, and the woman reminds them of what she’s done, and all that she’s accomplished. And Cinder herself is reminded too. Because when she’s like this, it’s easy to forget. It’s easy to believe them.

She can see the concern in Mercury and Emerald’s eyes every time she’s called away by Salem, because neither of them understand. Because she’s never told them. They think this is a bad thing. They think she has a reason to be afraid. But she doesn’t. And she’s not. It’s the only time she isn’t.

Salem wants to see her progress. To see how well she can do when she’s not already at the end of a full night of practice, when she hasn’t already pushed herself to the brink of exhaustion and then some. She knows that it isn’t fair, because somehow, it’s  _ easier _ when Salem is watching her. She knows that nobody else would feel that way. But she does.

The flames that dance from her fingertips are elegant. A waltz of finely tamed destructive power, candles performing revelry in the flicker of their own light. They could destroy everything in their path in a single instant. But tonight, they’re too polite to do so. Not a single lick of fire, not a single joule of energy is anywhere that it isn’t supposed to be. It was so different just a night before. But she was alone just a night before.

“You see?” Salem says, and Cinder can feel that warm hand on her shoulder once more. “Exhausting yourself is unnecessary.” Cinder simply nods. She doesn’t explain that that isn’t what’s happened here, that it’s so much more complicated than that. She doesn’t explain that this is  _ different _ , that it won’t be this way the moment the woman leaves. That it won’t be this way the next time she practices in this hall by herself. That it won’t be this way when the day comes where she finally has to do this for real. She doesn’t explain any of that. She couldn’t explain it even if she wanted to.

“I want to hear you say it,” Salem says once more, and Cinder opens her mouth again. The words come out this time. Strained. Painful. Difficult. Burning her throat worse than the fire burns her cold hands. But none of this has ever been easy, and she’s never allowed herself to think that it would be.

“I… Love… You…”

“Good,” Salem replies, already turned to face the door. “You truly are improving.”


End file.
